Beholder
by Steals Thyme
Summary: Bringing things into focus. Dan/Rorschach UST. Pre-Roche. Complete.


_Kinkmeme fic: anon wanted something about Dan switching from his goggles to his glasses for the first time in __ front of Rorschach__._

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Rorschach understands lust. It is a covetous emotion, selfish and destructive and not unlike greed; concerned only with possessing and consuming, gratification with no thought for anything but oneself. Something worthy of his contempt, a gross distortion of what people call love. He knows enough of lust to be righteous in his disgust, knows all about the money and the violence and the pawing at soft flesh, and how it can drive the best of men to their knees.

What he feels when he looks at Nite Owl isn't lust.

It's solidarity. Respect. Something that kindles a flicker of warmth in his chest – pride, perhaps. A sin, to be sure, but much more forgivable than base animalism. He's never had something to be proud of, before.

It's not lust.

Not when he stands boldly against the skyline, cape caught by the city wind and snapping out behind him. Not when he crouches to inspect a scene for evidence, all taut curves of burnished bronze.

Not as he admires his lines in battle; the fluidity of his movement and his disciplined, efficient blows. Not when at the end of patrol, he peels the cowl from his head and becomes Daniel Dreiberg. No, it is not lust.

It's a night like many others; stretches of restless inactivity interrupted by adrenaline-spiked flurries of combat. The Owlship brings them to the dark heart of the city, hovers over them like an omen as they mete justice.

When the scanners fall quiet and dawn is heralded by the shreds of pale light that creep into the alleyways, only then do they head back to the Nest. Nite Owl takes them down, tugs away his goggles and becomes softer. It's always Daniel who invites Rorschach up for coffee.

It's different this time, though. They don't sit at the kitchen table. Daniel doesn't like the way that Archie has been rattling, so they bring their mugs down into the basement so he can tinker with the engines.

He always takes the stairs more slowly, as Daniel. He knows he is sure-footed, yet he needs to test every step; it's as though Nite Owl's confidence bleeds away when he draws back the hood. It makes Rorschach uncomfortable, to think about it too much.

Increasingly so, when Daniel roots through a toolkit and has to hold a series of wrench sockets close to his face. He senses Rorschach's eyes on him, and smiles. Weakly, sheepishly. He fidgets with something in his other hand, held at his side, just out of view.

Rorschach sips his coffee, contemplates the basement floor.

Daniel lies on his back, slides beneath Archie. He talks as he works, about technical things that Rorschach doesn't understand and doesn't ask for explanations of. He is more Nite Owl again; skilled and competent.

Except when he swears. Rorschach grunts disapprovingly.

"I think we're done," Daniel says finally, and pulls himself from under the airship. He straightens to his feet, brushing down his uniform and looking at Rorschach expectantly. "Shall we give him a test?" He adjusts his glasses, smudging oil on his cheek.

_Glasses_. And suddenly it is not unfocused, apprehensive Daniel looking at him, because those gentle brown eyes have been sharpened and a fierce intelligence brought forth. _This_ is the man who is Nite Owl. _This_ is what he truly looks like, beneath the cowl and behind the goggles.

And the heat that spreads across Rorschach's face is borne of respect, not lust. The shiver that raises goosebumps is stirred by pride, not lust.

He follows Nite Owl into the ship. Watches him as he presses at the control panel, illuminating readout screens that reflect in his lenses. He's intent on his work, fingers dancing familiarly over the dash. The guise is shed, no more bumbling inventor – he's every bit the formidable genius he is supposed to be.

He looks up at Rorschach, brow slightly furrowed. "Something up, buddy?"

"You have engine grease on your cheek," Rorschach says.

"Oh," Daniel replies with a grin. "Probably the least dangerous of my occupational hazards, heh." He rubs at the wrong cheek with the back of his hand, knocks his glasses a little askew.

Rorschach flexes his fingers. He has no desire to touch, it is not lust. He is just going to straighten Daniel's glasses, and wipe away the grease.

"Oh," Daniel says again, much quieter this time. He doesn't need to say it very loudly, because they are standing very close. Rorschach can't seem to move his fingers from Daniel's face. They are unsteady, he's making things worse.

"Nite Owl," Rorschach says, as Daniel goes to take his glasses off. "No. Leave them—"

And he finds he's walking Daniel backwards, until the backs of his knees hit the pilot's seat and he sits abruptly. And this isn't lust, because there is nothing of pride or respect in that, only a want for the physical, and this is not about that, it's about—

He noses at Daniel's cheek, tilts his head to run his tongue over the arm of his glasses to where it rests behind his ear. Daniel breathes against him, swell of his chest under Rorschach's hands and it can't be lust, because there is no grabbing or pulling or pawing, just—

Rorschach buries his hands in the creases of his cowl, smooths it upward to fit around his face, until his hair curls over the leather. Now he's both Daniel and Nite Owl, and there's a gleam in his eyes behind that curving glass.

Rorschach doesn't know what this is, but it can't be lust.


End file.
